The paper sat like a shadow at the threshold.
She hadn't touched it.
Not yet.
It was easier to stare, as if distance might soften its weight — as if ignoring it might rewind time by even a minute.
But time didn't rewind here.
It only repeated.
Quietly.
Strategically.
Like a game already rigged before you learn the rules.
Arwa unfolded her limbs slowly, every movement deliberate, as if rushing would break something she didn't know how to fix. Her fingers still had the faint crescent marks from her nails. Still red. Still proof.
She reached for the slip of black.
Cold paper.
No words — again.
Just a single line, printed in thin, silver text, barely reflective under the dim light.
"One sees, the other forgets."
Her throat tightened.
It wasn't a message.
It was a riddle.
And riddles, in this place, were never just for her.
She closed her eyes. Just for a moment.
And saw it.
Room 308.
Zayaan's voice, breaking on that one word:
"Please."
The edge in his voice hadn't been fear.
It had been memory.
This had happened before.
Not just to him.
To all of them.
Patterns. Recurrence. Loops disguised as experiments.
And they were inside it. Not observing it — no.
They were the observation.
Her breath came quicker now, and she shoved the paper beneath her mattress like hiding it would stop it from being real.
It didn't.
There was a knock again — this time louder. Not at her door.
Down the hall.
A voice followed it.
Low. Male. Familiar.
Her pulse lurched.
Zayaan.
She didn't move right away.
Just listened.
He sounded... normal. Too normal. Like someone trying very hard to sound like he hadn't just unraveled inside a memory that wasn't supposed to exist.
She stood. Slowly.
Opened her door just enough to see the corner of his shoulder in the hallway, turned away, talking to someone else — someone she couldn't see.
She should've stayed hidden.
Should've backed away.
But the ache in her chest pushed her forward.
"Zayaan?" Her voice came out quieter than she meant. But it was enough.
He turned — just slightly.
Eyes finding hers across the dim corridor.
There was a flicker. Recognition. Relief. And then — guilt.
He didn't speak for a moment.
Then, finally:
"You saw it."
Not a question. A statement.
Arwa nodded.
The hallway felt colder.
He took a breath like he'd been holding it since yesterday. "Then you know it's real now."
She wanted to ask a hundred things.
Wanted to scream.
Wanted to crawl out of this place entirely.
Instead, she said:
"What happens next?"
Zayaan looked at her.
His voice was calm.
"We stop forgetting."